Help Me to Remember
by Waiting-for-a-mad-man-in-221b
Summary: Sherlock wakes up from a coma only to realize that he's lost every memory from April of 2009 to the present. Mycroft thinks it best that Sherlock never re learns of John's existence. But what happens when Sherlock bumps into him on a day out in the city that he is trying to re-learn. AU/Slash.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was in a coma for a few months after the fall. Mycroft knew that his brother had wanted to take care of Moran on his own terms, always the stubborn one, but he had no clue when or even if his brother was going to wake up. By the time Sherlock _had_ woken up from the coma Moran had been long dead, along with the rest of Moriarty's spiders.

Mycroft knew the moment Sherlock's eyes opened that something was wrong. "Lestrade?" Sherlock questioned dazedly. He started looking around, confusion written plainly on his face. Taking in his surroundings, making deductions.

Mycroft had always known this was a possibility. He'd known what would have been the clue as to if his brother had lost any of his memory. But instead of asking for John, he'd asked for Lestrade. The brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes had failed him for the first time. Amnesia the obvious diagnosis.

Sherlock relaxed, he let the tension in his muscles release at the sight of his older brother, who was sat in a chair to the left of him. His right leg crossed over the left. Umbrella planking his side, Mycroft was always prepared for London's sporadic weather.

"I was worried about you." Mycroft admitted, the seriousness in his tone startled Sherlock. Sure his brother had worried about him before but usually it was about Sherlock eating and sleeping enough. But with his current surroundings it was obvious this was not the cause for his worries. Sherlock reached up, gently stroking his right temple. He didn't know what made him reach there, but the wide puffy scar that ran about an inch across was a clue. Though he couldn't for the life of him remember where he'd acquired it. He tried his mind palace but it was blank of any traumatic incident that would have granted him with this impressive scar.

"Mycroft," He paused meeting his brother's solemn look. "What's happened to me?"

When the Doctor's had asked Sherlock what year it was his answer was April 2009. He'd lost almost three years of memory. They explained to him that he'd suffered from brain damage when he fell. They informed him that in fact it was 2012.

Sherlock had taken the news well. He'd never been an emotional man, and the only thing he'd cared about was if any other part of his brain was affected from the fall. They weren't, he would be able to retain new information and it wasn't likely he'd lose anymore, but he also would probably never remember those three years he'd lost.

When Sherlock questioned what had happened during the time he'd forgotten Mycroft had done what he thought was best. Not just for Sherlock but John as well. He'd told him that he'd been working with Greg, solving cases.

"Greg? Who's greg?" Mycroft was startled, Sherlock had met Greg in 2005. He couldn't be losing more of his memory could he?

"Gregory Lestrade." Mycroft tested.

"Oh Lestrade! Oh I didn't know that was his name." Mycroft exhaled, relieved that it had just been his brother's ignorance and not more brain damage.

And when he asked about the fall, he'd told Sherlock the partial truth. He had fallen from a roof, but Mycroft had told him that he'd fallen while investigating for a case. No need to tell him about John or Moriarty. He didn't remember them. It would do nothing but confuse the poor man.

After completing physical therapy Sherlock was released from the hospital. A genial woman wheeled him to one of Mycroft's cars that was idling in front of the hospital. The older Holmes helped his brother into the backseat. Of course Sherlock scoffed at this but accepted the help nonetheless, he was still week, his legs still shook slightly the muscles were worn out easily from prolonged lack of use.

Mycroft didn't know where Sherlock would feel most comfortable. Obviously 221b was out of the question. In 2009 Sherlock had been staying at this dump on the outskirts of London, Mycroft was sure the place would have been occupied by a student strapped for cash by now. Other than himself Lestrade was the only person Sherlock had.

So that's where Mycroft took him. He would have had him stay at his home, but he needed to be cared for, and he wouldn't be able to do that. Plus, Greg knew Sherlock better at that time. Sure Mycroft was able to tell what kind of soap his brother used on a certain day, but he would never be able to understand how he worked.

"Thank you Lestrade, I feel terrible pushing him on you, but the doctors said that he needs normality. And at this time in his life you were what was normal to him. That and solving cases, so let him help you with a few if you don't mind." Greg nodded spying around the corner to make sure Sherlock couldn't hear what he was about to say.

"I just don't see how we're going to keep all of this out of the press, and John… he still comes around Scotland Yard sometimes. We've agreed it'd be better for him, for both of them, not to know right? I can't cut off contact with John, he's already lost Sherlock."

Mycroft swung his umbrella slightly as assuaged Lestrade's worries. "I've handled the press, you won't have to worry about them. As for doctor Watson, I see how this might be troublesome. Perhaps tell him to call before he comes from now on, tell him you're busy. I don't care, but I don't want either of them more confused than they already are. Never mind crushed."

Lestrade gave a tacit approval with a nod of his head. Mycroft gave him a warm smile. "Well I best be off, Goodbye Sherlock." He called into the living room where Sherlock laid on the couch. Mycroft turned to leave before he thought better of it and added, "Remember in 2009 he was still struggling, make sure he doesn't relapse."

"Don't worry Mycroft, I'll take good care of him."

Sherlock looked around Lestrade's flat. He remembered it from the times when he'd overdosed and he'd taken him in. Fixed him up, gotten him sober. He detested it. He liked his dumpy flat on the outskirts of London where he could be alone. He could work on cases, spreading out his files. Where he could keep body parts in the fridge without Lestrade yelling at him.

But he supposed that wasn't his life anymore. He supposed that's why he was here with Lestrade, because he didn't have that flat anymore. He wouldn't remember where he lived now.

"I need some… I need some air." He said springing up from the couch, snapping up the navy blue trench coat that he had no memory of purchasing, and the scarf that had been there too. Both had been clearly dry-cleaned. He wondered if he was wearing these when he… _The traffic zoomed by on the streets below, Sherlock jumped the alley with ease. Landing on the roof of the next building, his trench coat catching the wind and billowing behind him. A shorter man was trying to catch up to him, he barely made the jump with his stumpy legs. Sherlock couldn't make anything else out. Was the man chasing him? _

He was out of the vision as soon as it started. He didn't know what he was seeing. Was it a memory? He didn't know. What he did need to know was that he needed to be on his own sooner rather than later. If he showed Lestrade and his brother that he could adjust and take care of himself maybe they would let him get his own flat.

"I'm going out Lestrade. Shouldn't be long." Greg met him at the door blocking his escape. He is going to make this difficult isn't he, Sherlock thought.

"No Sherlock. You can't go out alone yet, you know 2009 London, not 2012." Greg was just buying time. London hadn't changed much in the three years, he just didn't want Sherlock to have a run in with John.

"Greg I need to get out of here. I need to memorize the city again. I'm a grown man you can't keep me cooped up in here. I'll take a cab, I won't walk see I'm making compromises now." Sherlock was getting hysterical. Greg released a sigh, he knew that he wasn't taking this as well as he let on. His mind was the most important thing to him, and a part of it was missing. He was going to find a way out anyway so why not let him go?

"Just try not to get killed by your cabbie, yeah?"

"What?" Sherlock questioned his face scrunching up at such a ridiculous warning. He took in Lestrade's serious expression and then it dawned on him that this must have happened before. _He was there again, the man that was on the roof. Still trying to catch Sherlock, or was he just trying to catch up? Sherlock rounded a corner apparently chasing after something himself, he would have never taken this street if he'd been trying to escape from someone. _"Never mind. I shouldn't be home too late." Greg gave a terse nod and stepped aside. Sherlock made his way down the stairs and out the door, shivery at the biting cold.


	2. Chapter 2

**For the sake of this story Sherlock didn't know Mrs. Hudson before he rented 221b. Sherlock and John were together before the fall. Also Lestrade never got back with his wife after the PE teacher incident.**

* * *

Ignoring his earlier compromises Sherlock took off down the road on foot. He felt steady enough to walk at the moment and he could always hail a cab if needed. Greg's flat wasn't far from Scotland Yard. So he started there. Then he made his way around the rest of the center of London.

He was out for almost 3 hours, taking everything in. Memorizing all the new street signs. What's been renovated. What shops have opened, closed. He had hailed a cab around the hour mark, his legs were starting to tire out. But after his last stop he decides he can make it home on foot. He starts making his way down Baker Street heading back to his new flat. He passes by Speedy's, slowing slightly to peer look at the place through the large windows in the front of the shop. Wonder why I've never been there, he thinks.

John takes a seat at his and Sherlock's table in Speedy's. He does this on days when he misses him. Well when he misses him more than usual. He thanks Mrs. Hudson for his dinner as she sets it down in front of him. He likes to people watch, it helps him take his mind off of things. Sometimes he even tries to make deductions about the people he would see. He could never see enough though, not like he could.

Tonight he can hardly keep his eyes open. He hadn't slept well last night. Hadn't slept well any night really. His face contorts into a yawn he brings his hand up to his mouth to cover it. Coming out of his yawn he opens his eyes and sees someone walking, slowing slightly as they pass by the window of Speedy's.

"Sherlock" A breathless whisper escapes him, he blinks and the vision is gone. Just like Sherlock himself.

"I'm home Greg." He said as he slips his shoes off flopping back on the couch. He turns on Greg's television with nothing better to do. Exploring the city that he has lived in for so long yet, to him, has changed over night has left him feeling exhilarated. Things got so boring, this was something for him to do while he waited to be able to get his own flat. He could keep exploring his city, he could find something new everyday.

Just the thought had him wanting to go out for more. But for the sake of him getting out of this flat he decided to stay and appease Greg.

"Find anything interesting?" Greg inquires as he comes into the living room taking the recliner diagonal to the couch.

"Today was just for big things, like shops that have opened and closed. Once I'm able to be on my feet for longer I'll get into all the minute details."

"Well don't push yourself too hard." He then added mostly to himself. "Oh what am I saying? Look who I'm talking to." Sherlock guessed he was talking about the case where he'd fallen. He smiled at him sarcastically as Greg got up to go back into the kitchen. "You hungry?" He asked.

"No I'm fine." Sherlock replied settling back into the couch. He put his head on one of the arms of the couch, stretching out his body, resting his feet on the other arm.

He heard a buzzing coming from the table behind his head. He pulled himself up to look over the arm of the couch. The buzzing was coming from a… phone he guessed. He took it, looking it over. Yes it was the newest version of the iPhone he deduced. Must be Greg's.

The reason for the buzzing lit up the screen. It was a text message. Sherlock didn't recognize the name, _John Watson_. He slid his finger over the arrow unlocking the phone. No password. (Wouldn't have been a problem either way. It was almost amusing deciphering Lestrade's passwords, he'd done it plenty of times before.) The phone opened right to the text.

_I'm going mad Greg, completely mad.-JW _

Nothing interesting, Sherlock thought replacing the phone on the table behind him. He resumed watching what ever was on the TV, it seemed to have changed to re-runs of one of those shows where women are always convicting me of being their 'baby daddies". This one was no different. The man the young blonde was convicting this time was obvious not the father.

"Of course he's not the father!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Look at the turn-ups on his jeans." He spat the words out without even thinking, the phrase felt eerily familiar to him but he didn't dwell on it. It wasn't too long before another text lit up the screen of Greg's phone. But this time he does recognize the name, _Mycroft_. Already checking up on me, he thinks.

_I'm worried about Doctor Watson. He says he's seen him. Please tell me he really is seeing things, and we haven't screwed this arrangement up. Already!-MH _

What on earth? Who was this Doctor Watson and why was Mycroft worried about him? What was the arrangement his older brother spoke of?

"Who's John Watson?" Sherlock asked as Greg entered the living room a moment later with a cup of tea in his hand as he headed towards the recliner. He stopped in his tracks. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Why do you ask?" Answering a question with another question, Sherlock thought. Indicates nervousness, hiding something.

"No reason. You got a text from him, then Mycroft texted you _about_ him. He must be important." Lestrade continued towards the recliner. Avoiding eye contact when he answered.

"He's part of a uh… a case. Well he's helping me with a case." Lying, Sherlock thought. He decided not to question further. Greg must have already known Sherlock knew he was lying so what difference would it make? John Watson surely had nothing to do with him so why would he care?


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock took a seat in Angelo's in the booth in front of the window. He wasn't hungry, just starving for familiarity. He looked around the rest of the restaurant, almost nothing had changed. Yes Angelo's was the perfect place to feel at home since Sherlock found himself without one.

"Sherlock! Mycroft has told me about your accident." Angelo started in his thick accent as he placed a firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Squeezing it as to reassure him that he was there for him. "You hungry? Remember anything for you." His voice lacked the usual joy that Sherlock had grown to tolerate.

"Nothing for me. Hope you don't mind if I just people watch?"

"Anything for you Sherlock! Just call me if you change your mind!" Angelo said giving Sherlock's shoulder one final squeeze and slap as he retreated back to the kitchen.

He looked out around the bustling city life. Normal people going about with their mundane lives. Sherlock was sometimes envious of them. Being able to go anywhere, do anything without their minds going a thousand miles an hour. Which he couldn't stop from happening when he first saw the man that had barely whispered his name.

"Sherlock." The shorter man said again as he fell into the seat across from him. "But you're dead." he said breathlessly, his face flushed.

"Excuse me, you are?" Sherlock questioned averting his gaze from the life outside to the man who was now sitting across from him.

"Sherlock..." The man's eyes welled up with tears.

_Sherlock held a white and pink pill up to the light. He inspected it but could find no telling tale that it was harmful in anyway. Nothing to make it different from the pill the other man had. How did he know the other man had a pill? He moved the pill closer and closer to his lips, placing it between his teeth. Getting ready to bite down when a shot was fired into the other man's shoulder, knocking him to the floor. Everything moved so quickly but the only other thing Sherlock caught was the injured man's last yell of "Moriarty!"_

"Sherlock are you okay?" The man's tears had spilled leaving shinny wet trails down his cheeks. Sherlock shook his head to clear it.

"I don't know who you are!" He answered again before he rose from his seat making his way out of the restaurant he passed the window where the dirty blond man still sat. He hadn't made any move to get up. Instead he had placed his head in his hands his shoulders shaking slightly. Sherlock continued down the sidewalk. He didn't understand why the encounter had shaken him up so much. He was confused.

John sat in Angelo's for he didn't know how long. But he left before Angelo had the chance to see him like this. Broken and clearly imagining things. Sherlock was dead and he wasn't in Angelo's just moments earlier. It was all part of John's hyperactive imagination.

John grasped the handle of his cane, standing up and making his way back to 221b as quickly as he could. Once there he let the emotions of his "encounter" take over him. All the heaving sobs he had suppressed back at Angelo's were released. The thing that had gotten to John the most was that he hadn't remembered him... John wasn't sure if he could handle something like that happening again.

Sherlock barged into Lestrade's (and, he guessed, his) flat. He ran into the room that Greg had set up for him. The screen lit up on the laptop Mycroft had gotten for him to replace his… old one he guessed? Mycroft had seemingly replaced everything. Everything he had brought to him was new, straight out of the box. Even the clothes, save for his coat and scarf, every article had a tag on it.

Once the laptop was fired up he opened up the Internet, thinking back to his vision earlier. Moriarty. What could that possibly mean? He typed the word into Google. There were thousands of results. He quickly scanned through them. None of the results gave him a clue as to why he had heard it in his… flash back? He wasn't sure. It seemed Moriarty had nothing to do with him. Then why had he heard it?

John knocked on the door of Greg's office. Greg lifted his legs from the desk and placed them on the floor, sitting up and swiping the crumbs of his donut from his button up. "Yeah come in." He said once he was situated.

"Hey." John croaked out, voice still horse from his afternoon hysterics. He took the seat that he had occupied so many times before, but this time no one sat besides him.

He tried to talk, but his throat went dry, and he couldn't get the words out. He placed his forehead on his palm. He inhaled a deep breath.

"John?" Greg tried.

"Yeah," Inhale. "Yeah I just… I feel like I'm going insane and… um. I just, I miss him."

With a rush of guilt Greg almost told John the truth. But he can't. Like he and Mycroft agreed, it wouldn't be fair to either of them. Sherlock would be more confused then he already was, and John would be defeated if he knew Sherlock couldn't remember him.

"I'm so sorry John. I wish…" God he hated lying to the poor bloke. "I wish there was something I could do." He moved around the desk to sit next to his mate, he put a comforting hand on his shoulder. John hid his tear stained face in his hand, turning it away from Greg.

"I'm sorry, I know you can't do anything." Oh god Lestrade didn't think he'd ever felt so guilty in his life. "I've seen him Greg. I saw him today, in Angelo's and then… he said he didn't know who I was. And then he just…" He stopped shaking his head. He rubbed the tears from his eyes. "Why would I think up something like that? It's like I want to make myself hurt."

Sherlock gave up his search for the enigma that was Moriarty. He toed off his shoes and then plucked off his socks. He grabbed the violin that Mycroft had bought him. He plucked at the strings. All were out of tune. He fixed them by ear and then began to play. His bow slid over the strings smoothly. He let his mind go just like he did every time he was composing, his hands doing all the work. The melody was sweet and sorrow at the same time. He didn't remember composing this. It was like when you've driven somewhere so many times, you can just black out and you'll still end up where you were meant to go. Muscle memory it was called. Well at least my muscles remember now why can't my brain? He thought.

Frustrated he threw the violin and bow on the bed. At first he hadn't cared at all about his memory loss. It wouldn't be difficult for him to figure out what he'd missed. Plus he wouldn't have any useless facts from the years cramming his mind palace, just the most important facts.

But now… with the man. He was crying wasn't he? Sherlock thought as he remembered back to Angelo's earlier that day. Why was he crying? Surely he had him mistaken for someone else… but he'd known his name. But if he'd known Sherlock in those lost years, someone would have told him about the accident? Or would they?

Could this man be the mysterious Moriarty?


	4. Chapter 4

**I neglected writing my health essay to write this part because it was in my head and I needed to get it down before I lost it all. This probably means no update for a few days though because my essay is due on monday and I have two other projects on top of that. But thank you all so much for your support and nice reviews! Please feel free to give me any ideas/critiques all are appreciated! **

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Sherlock mind was going almost too fast for him to keep up with. He couldn't sleep, but he could barely ever sleep, that wasn't anything new. Or was it? He didn't know anymore.

What made it worse was he surely had no one to tell him if it was or wasn't. He knew he wasn't a very… likeable man. He didn't usually tolerate others stupidity well. He'd never had a relationship, not like he'd ever felt one necessary. Greg was the closest thing he had to a proper friend, and he was almost sure that he knew nothing remotely personal about him besides his drug problem. Sherlock didn't even know if he still _had_ a drug problem. He didn't feel the pang of withdrawal so he must have quit.

He got up, giving up on sleep. After jotting a quick note to Lestrade and creating another note, wrapping it around a 50-pound note, he took to the streets. He hoped that his network would still be up and running but he had absolutely no clue. Discreetly as possible he searched for someone in his homeless network.

"Change suh?" A young woman, sitting besides the opening of an alley, held out a cup to him. Perfect. Sherlock dropped the note into the cup and continued down the street. Hopefully he would have the information he needed by the next afternoon, and then he would still have time to investigate further himself.

He went back to the flat. Nothing was open anyway. He crumpled the note that he'd left for Greg, not needing it anymore. He lay down in his bed not expecting any sleep to come. But soon he found his breathing slowed, his eyelids grew heavy and with his mind able to calm down a little after having dropped off the note, he fell asleep.

_He sat in the back of an ambulance; an obnoxiously orange blanket was wrapped around him. Lights from police cars and ambulances streaked across the dark sky. He recognizes Lestrade he starts talking to him. He can't make out what either of them are saying (something about a shooter?), but Lestrade is writing down what he's say. Then Sherlock sees the man, the man that never seems to be in focus, out of the corner of his eye. He freezes and Lestrade tucks his notebook, filled with unfinished notes, back into his pocket. Sherlock gets up and approaches the man. They walk away together. _

Sherlock woke with a start. Remembering his late night activity he quickly dressed and writing another note for Greg, it was 10 am, Sherlock would probably still be out when he got home from the Yard. He then took off in search for the woman he'd encountered last night.

It didn't take long to find her. The sidewalk was busy and he'd almost missed her hidden by a corpulent man who passed her by slowly. But she'd stood up as he approached and handed off the information that she'd collected for him. He walked a good distance from the woman before he stopped to read the note, leaning against the wall of a giant brick faced building.

The paper was the same one he'd given to her the previous night. His notes large and demanding handwriting stood out far from the woman's eloquent and swooping letters. His request had been to find out as much as he could on the man he'd encountered the previous afternoon. He'd given her a description and where he'd seen him. But the detail of his weeping would be the one that would get him the facts he needed. One person would have had to notice a man crying to himself in a restaurant, and if they hadn't then Sherlock feared for the lives of the people in Angelo's because they were all stupendous idiots.

Her note was brief but gave Sherlock the start he needed.

_John Watson, 221b Baker Street. _

John Watson? Doctor Watson? The man the Mycroft had been worried about. John Watson the one that was working with Lestrade at the Yard?

He didn't know how it all fit together. But he sure as hell was going to find out. He decided to start with Baker Street. He could search for a John Watson on the Internet later, but now was probably the best time to break into someone's flat. It was 10:30 and the man would probably be at work.

He stood out side of 221 Baker Street. Something inside of him twisted. He'd walked by the building countless times. He'd never noticed it before, was it the thrill of the case, or had he been here before? It was time to find out.

He slipped the credit card (which was again new from Mycroft) in the space between the door and the frame. He held the card flush against the doorframe and pushed it until it hit the latch. He bent the card away from the doorknob. It only took a second for the latch to slide back.

He cautiously entered the dark foyer. No one seemed to be home. He looked to his right, 221c. _Sneakers sat in the middle of the room in front of the fireplace. The room was empty otherwise. The wallpaper was peeling and the room smelled of mold. He heard the warning "He's a bomber remember?" _

God how Sherlock wished these episodes made sense! But at least it was something. He had been here before, for a case? It surely seemed like it.

He spotted 221a and from there he deduced that 221b was up the stairs that started to his left. He made his way up the stairs as silently as possible. He encountered a squeaky step half way up and winced. He continued up and opened the door at the top of the stairs that had no lock that he could see.

The smell was the first thing that hit him. It smelled slightly of smoke masked with a hint of formaldehyde and other various chemicals all wrapped up in the scent of freshly boiled tea. It smelled like him.

Or his jacket and scarf anyway. He tiptoed quietly into the kitchen. A table sat in the middle of the room. It was covered in scratched and divots. Beakers and bottles of chemicals sat on the same table as a high-powered microscope. Definitely not for recreational use.

But there were newspapers too. A thick stack sat on the corner of the table. He picked up the first paper. The headline read "**SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS". **And under it was a picture of him. The rest of the stack had similar headlines, all picturing him.

He'd been so pre-occupied examining the table and finding the paper that he hadn't heard the squeak of the middle stair. He only realized he wasn't alone when John Watson spoke his name. Was that the only word the poor man knew? Sherlock thought.

"What is this? Why does this paper say I killed myself? And what does all of this have to do with you?" John moved closer, he touched the hand that held out the newspaper. He gasped when he came in contact with Sherlock's skin.

"You're real?"


	5. Chapter 5

It _was_ Sherlock that had passed Speedy's two days ago and it _was _Sherlock who he'd collapsed in front of in Angelo's. He was real. Real and alive, his ivory skin glowed healthfully. His chest was rising and falling, breathing. His eyes were full of life, life that John had thought he'd lost so many months ago.

"You're real." He said again, this time he let more anger and confusion lace into his words. "You're alive."

"Obviously. Tell me why you have these papers. Why do they say that I committed suicide?"

"Because you did…" John said sensitively, Sherlock was clearly agitated.

"I fell during a case, that's how I got the amnesia. I most certainly did not commit suicide. And what's this thing about_ fake_ genius?"

"Amnesia, oh jesus Sherlock…"

"If you could explain before you get sentimental on me, that'd be very much appreciated."

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." John said more to himself.

"Where did you hear that?" Sherlock questioned moving closer.

"You."

John guided Sherlock into the living room. He stood in the doorway as he waited for Sherlock to choose which seat he would take. He didn't know why he did it. He just wanted to see if he would still pick the right chair.

He did. John let a small smile spread over his lips, and then moved to sit in his own chair, but stopped short and instead went to the table to grab his laptop. He then took a seat in and fired up the laptop. He set it aside as he began to tell the story, their story. The laptop would be handy later on in his tales.

"You don't remember me at all?" John had asked him the question back in the kitchen but needed to make sure.

"Nothing from April 2009 to present." Sherlock repeated, slightly annoyed with the doctor's repetitiveness. He placed his hands together, as if he was going to pray, and placed his hands under his chin. Ready to listen to the memories of this strange man. Memories that he'd once shared.

"Well I didn't know you in 2009." John started. "We met January 29th 2010. Mike Stamford he; you knew Mike before right?"

"Yes I've known Mike for years."

"Yeah that's what I thought. Well he introduced us, said you needed a flat mate and I couldn't afford a flat alone on my army pension…"

"Army of course! It was on the tip of my tongue," Sherlock cut him off. "Sorry, please continue."

"So the next day we moved in here." John continued. "Then Lestrade came in with a case…and it all kind of took off from there. Here." He said handing over his laptop. John had woken up one day to find that his blog had been taken down. He had a feeling that it would happen after Sherlock had been deemed a fake. He thought ahead and saved all that he had written on there. If not only for sentimental reasons but one day, just maybe, he could use what he'd written to try to clear Sherlock's name.

"My cases… our cases?" Sherlock questioned after scrolling through the titles of John's blog posts.

"Yeah, I guess you could say I was your assistant."

"Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds, what's incredible though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things." John gave him an apologetic look.

"Yeah well…" John lifted his hands at a loss for words. "That's just how we were."

"We were mates you and I?" Sherlock thought it was unbelievable that he could have a proper mate. But they way doctor Watson wrote about them together…

"Yes, best mates. That's how it started off anyway." John said cautiously. He remembered Sherlock at the beginning, how (even though he denied it) uncomfortable he was with the ideas of relationships. At the beginning he wouldn't even admit to their friendship. A lot changed over those short two years.

_Sherlock had his back to the wall. His heart was pounding, his lungs burning. Adrenaline was still coursing through him making him tingle. The shorter man was beside him. They looked at each other; both were trying to catch their breath. They burst into laughter. _

"Sherlock, I… I didn't mean to overwhelm you." Sherlock blinked and looked back up to John, clearing his head. He'd missed the last part of John's answer, his attention having been focused on the vision.

"No, no you didn't. I'm sorry I get… well I think I get flashbacks sometimes. I always see…" Sherlock realized then. He hadn't even been thinking about it before but it was him of course. "I always see you."

"Me?" John asked hopefully.

"Yes. I didn't realize it was you until now actually. You're never in focus, but now I know it's you. We were on a roof, and then we were running through London Then there was the one about the pills; you weren't in that one though. And just now we were laughing at something. I didn't know if they were memories or not but they must be, right?"

"They're memories." John thought back to A Study in Pink. The case that had made them partners in solving crimes. The case that had brought them to together. It was his favorite for that reason. If Sherlock could only remember towards the end of their time together, before Moriarty had succeeded in burning John's heart out. When everything was just settling into place, and John was completely content with the direction his life was heading in.

But John didn't let himself get his hopes up too much, but what if Sherlock was getting his memory back? Even if it took years there was a possibility that he could remember everything that had happened between them, and that was exciting. Sherlock looked slightly excited too. As excited as Sherlock Holmes can look, it was just a slight change in his eyes but John had picked it out easily.

"You're a doctor right?" He asked after a moment of silence that had followed John's affirmation that what he was seeing were indeed his memories.

"Yes, but I can't tell you what this means." Sherlock nodded obviously knowing the answer before he'd even asked the question.

"The doctor said I would probably never get any of my memories from those years back, but I've already remembered some of them."

"Maybe you'll get them back, but you're more likely to not get more than snippets here and there. You have to be prepared for that." John said slipping into his doctor persona. "It would be a miracle if remembered anymore than that."

"Maybe you could help me to remember."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock made sure to walk down the short hallway to his room, as John had informed him, as slowly as possible. Making sure to take in everything. Something was sure to trigger his memory. Surely the doctor had been wrong when he said he wasn't likely to regain his memory. He'd already remembered a few things. Of course they still didn't make much sense, but nonetheless…

John's mind was still reeling. Amnesia, just a silly thing like amnesia. Yes it had killed him a little when Sherlock hadn't known him, but what mattered was that Sherlock was here! With him, in 221b after months of thinking that he'd never get to see him, touch him, hold him again. Even if he never got his memory back, it would be ok. Even if they never got to where they once were, everything would be ok. Because the world's only consulting detective was alive.

That's what John had to remind himself of as Sherlock entered his room, so that he didn't get his hopes up too high. He hoped that something would spark, but he knew it wasn't that easy. There was always that hope through the next few weeks that Sherlock and John worked in secret to try to get him to remember.

Sherlock had told him that Mycroft and Lestrade never intended on them seeing each other again. Or that's what he had deduced from the texts and the information John had given him. John was furious at first but he could see where they were coming from. But how could they have thought that he'd rather think Sherlock was dead? Amnesia he could deal with; was happy with after thinking he'd been 'dead' for months. When Sherlock was 'dead' John was dead. He didn't feel anything; he'd been a robot Eat, work, and (rarely) sleep. Repeat.

Helping him to relearn his life gave John the life he needed. He was starting to get back to his old self. He'd never been more grateful for Sherlock's overly active brain. For him not being able to let anything go. He didn't know if he would've ever seen him again if it weren't for that quirk of his.

Opening a new door was exhilarating and also terrifying. Never knowing what's beyond it but hoping that it could help him in some way, while knowing that it probably won't. Even if it did what if he didn't like what he saw?

John had dragged him all around London, nothing had sparked for him yet, and nothing had lit the flame that would illuminate his memories. It was increasingly frustrating.

"I can't remember John!" He said as he stood looking blankly at the pool surface that rippled making the moons reflection on it wiggle. John thought it would be best to bring him their normal places first. Like cafes and shops where they'd gone. But they'd run out of those quite quickly. Now it was time for some of the more difficult places.

"Hey don't worry about it," John placed a comforting had on Sherlock's shoulder, leaning in as close as he dared (Sherlock still didn't really know him yet). The taller man just shrugged it off, starting for the entrance of the pool. His abnormally long legs had him out of there in a couple of seconds.

"Sherlock!" John shouted after him, having to run to catch up to the detectives stride. He grabbed his arm, stopping him.

"I won't do it anymore. It's obviously not working and it's just a waste of time. I should be working on cases."

"Sherlock, it'll happen. You just have to give it time!" He knew he shouldn't tell him that. It wasn't for sure going to happen. Anything could happen; he could even lose more memory. But giving up sure wasn't going to help him at all. "You're brain it's…" John paused thinking for the word but Sherlock took over his pause.

"It's broken John, and a little trip down _memory lane _isn't going to fix it."

John flinched at the venom in Sherlock's words, but he added continued. "I was going to say amazing. Your brain works differently, your mind palace it,"

"My what?" Sherlock cut in.

John waved him off. " Never mind that, it… the things I've seen you figure out are brilliant. If anyone could regain their lost memory it would be you." Sherlock considered John's words for a moment before stalking off.

"Sherlock where are you going?" John asked again running to catch up to him.

"I'm going to Lestrade's. I don't plan on continuing this little quest for my memory. If it comes it comes but I'm not going to dwell on it." He stopped again. "I can't dwell on it, because when I think about it… I feel like I don't know who I am! What if I remember and I don't like who I am anymore?"

"You," John tried.

"I don't even know what I'm saying!" He said pressing his hands against the side of his forehead; he spun around in a slow circle. John could see the anxiety, fear, and confusion that he'd only seen once or twice. "Do you see what I mean? I would have never of worried about such a stupid little thing like this before. God it's so frustrating!"

John nearly missed the thin tears, which had started to make tracks over Sherlock's cheeks, in the dim lighting. "I need to focus on cases John," He said starting to back away from him. "I need to uh… to take my mind off of this. If the memories come back great, but I can't go on like this." He said flinging his arms out to the side. He hailed a cab when he made it to the road, leaving John behind.

He didn't know if the person he was looking for would still be in London. Or even still alive, going by his track record, but he needed a fix. He guessed that in the future he'd kicked the habit, but tonight that didn't matter. He needed some.

He told the Cabbie to pull over when he saw the familiar flat on the corner of Crawford Street. He popped his collar as he walked across the street to the building. He checked the list of names by the door. Charlie's name was faded, and smudged, but still there. He rang the buzzer as he had been instructed to. -... ..- -.- . .-…, It was Morse code for buyer.

He was buzzed in right away and he stepped onto the familiar staircase that leads to the second floor flat he'd visited so much in the past. Charlie, a scrawny, early thirties, dark haired man, met him at the door, he looked shocked.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock didn't have the normal dealer, buyer relationship with Charlie. Sherlock played no games and Charlie knew that. He also knew how much Sherlock had struggled with his addiction and how he'd tried to kick it many times, always letting it get the better of him. He also knew how talented he was, how powerful his mind could be. He had started to care more about Sherlock than the money he supplied him with, which used to be a lot.

"Sherlock I can't let you do this. It's been 2 and a half years." Charlie began to shut the door in his face but Sherlock put his booted foot out to stop him. He pushed the door open inviting himself inside.

"I will have the police here in 5 minutes if you turn me away." Sherlock bargained, no nonsense.

"That's not fair mate," Charlie started Sherlock put a hand up to silence him. He took out his wallet producing 80 pounds.

"2 grams please." He said collectedly. He'd calmed himself down on the cab ride over here, Knowing that soon he'd be able to escape his mind. If only for a little while. Charlie shook his head, knowing that Sherlock really would have the cops on his ass in a matter of minutes if he screwed him.

"I hate doing this Sherlock. I really do." He said as he handed over to coke. Sherlock traded it for the 80 quid and deposited the coke into his jacket pockets. He wished he had his own place so that he could shoot up in the privacy of his own home, but Charlie's would have to do.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry this is so short but I have an essay to write but it's been way too long and I wanted to get _something _up for you guys! Anyway thank you again for your nice reviews! I'm off of school on Thursday so updates will me more regular! **

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Back at home now, having successfully gotten by Greg without being seen, he took off his jacket and shoes. Still slightly dazed he tripped over his own feet landing on his bed. He crashed. He had forgotten how horrible that part was, the crashing. It almost made the high not worth it. Almost.

He had been able to escapes himself. Escape the nagging feeling that there was something different about John, something that scared him. Escape the fact the he'd lost three years and that they weren't coming back. It kept his mind focused on other topics. Ones that he couldn't think of now as he fell into a deep sleep.

John had tried texting and calling Sherlock's mobile many times before giving into his fatigue. The evening had left him with little hope that Sherlock would ever regain his memory. He didn't even seem to want his memories back, John thought as he subconsciously padded down the short hallway that led to Sherlock's room.

John needed the comfort of the detective tonight and this was the only way he was going to acquire that. He went into Sherlock's closet, tugging the purple button down off the hanger, which tumbled to the floor. He left it there, too tired to take care of it. He made his way back into the living room, taking the stairs slowly. He reached his room, not bothering to undress, he slipped into bed. Lying on his side he brought Sherlock's shirt to his face. His hands wrapped tightly around it. He slept soundly surrounded by Sherlock's unique and comforting smell.

Every breath he took made his head pound. The light streaming in through the slats in the blinds made his eyes feel as if they were on fire. He remembered how he'd gotten addicted to this stuff. It was much easier to shoot up again rather than deal with the sluggish feeling of a comedown.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and ran a hand through his mangled curls. He forced himself to sit up, even though the pressure in his head only increased. He hoped Greg would have already gone to work so that he cool get rid of this feeling, the only way he knew how.

He staggered along the path to the living room. Thankfully the rest of the flat was dark, all the lights were switched off and the curtains were all drawn. He found Greg's note on the table, relieved to find that he would be at Scotland Yard late that day.

He'd woken up that morning still immersed in Sherlock's smell. He frowned when he realized that he was alone. He'd thought… it didn't matter what' he'd thought because Sherlock wasn't there. Hadn't been there in months.

He missed the nights when he'd been there to hold onto. When John had been falling apart he'd always been so sure that everything would work out. He remembered the night after Jim had been found _not guilty_; he'd been terrified for him. For them both if he was to be completely honest. The detective had let him take the other side of his bed that night. Usually it was only a once a week occurrence, but after that it was every night save for the nights when Sherlock didn't come home. Those were sleepless nights.

The memory of what happened last night hit him. He recalled how frustrated Sherlock had gotten. How he'd given up on himself; he'd given up on John as well. He checked his phone to see if Sherlock had answered him while he'd been asleep. Nothing.

The cab ride to Greg's flat felt agonizingly long. Hopefully Sherlock would be thinking more clearly today. John knew that amnesia patients often got frustrated, but usually they could get passed it. Though he also knew Sherlock wasn't a normal patient.

The cab pulled up to Greg's, he knew that the detective had been called in for an early case. Greg had quite recently taken to Facebook and now updated his status with mostly things that had annoyed him. His statuses took up most of John's news feed. John knocked on the door with a balled fist. He waited for a couple of minutes before knocking again.

When there was still no answer he thought maybe Sherlock had gone with Greg to work on the case. He used his spare key (well the key Sherlock had pick pocketed from Greg years prior, John wasn't even sure if Greg knew he had it) and moved cautiously in the dark entryway.

"Sherlock?" He questioned as he continued to move through the flat. A quiet moan came from the living room. John entered to see Sherlock nearly comatose on the couch. The doctor part of him kicked in, checking Sherlock's vitals and pupils. His heart rate was elevated and his pupils slightly dilated.

John was going over what it could be in his head when he saw it. The needle had rolled off the coffee table and was now lying at the edge of the area rug. "Oh Jesus Sherlock, what have you done to yourself?"


	8. Chapter 8

John stayed with him while he was passed out. He'd supported Sherlock under the arms as he'd dragged him to his room. He had to toss him on the bed to get the taller man on there. It reminded him of when Irene had drugged him, leaving him comatose but just lucid enough to insult him. It made him angry that Sherlock wouldn't remember that. He didn't even know why.

He made sure that he didn't choke on his own vomit when he had heard the gurgling coming from somewhere deep in his throat. He turned him on his side, and did his best to clean up the bile that poured from his mouth. Greg would be home soon but he really couldn't give a rat's ass if he found out about them seeing each other again.

What did it matter anymore anyway? The damage had been done. John just hoped that Greg and Mycroft wouldn't think that he'd been trying to force Sherlock to remember. Wait… had he? That's what he was coming over here to do wasn't it? Try to make Sherlock come to his senses about this. But maybe John was the one that had to come to his senses.

He finally understood why Mycroft and Greg hadn't wanted them to see each other again. They knew it would drive John mad. Drive _both_ of them mad. And maybe they just didn't see that John would gladly go mad for his detective.

Sherlock started to cough and John braced himself for the smell of vomit to pierce the room again but instead Sherlock opened his eyes, blinking quickly to try to adjust to the darkness of the room. John knew he would be waking up with a banging headache and did his best to block any light that could filter into the room.

"John?" He asked shifting in the bed looking over his shoulder to peek at John who had started to move closer on the bed. He was sitting on the edge of the opposite side of the bed. He hadn't wanted to be too far away incase Sherlock vomited again.

"Here." John whispered knowing Sherlock's head must have been killing him. He moved closer to him on the bed his feet no longer touched the ground. Sherlock rolled over, his face dropped into the pillow where he let out a muffled sigh.

"I really hadn't used in three years?" Sherlock asked him, turning his face to look up at John. It still rested on the pillow and John couldn't help but think to the nights when he'd been the one up in the late hours of the night, and in some cases the early hours of the morning. He would look at Sherlock from his place on his pillow. He looked so much younger asleep, not so wired up and stressed out all the time. He looked like that now too. But John also saw fear and disappointment in himself now.

"No. You hadn't." He answered, his hands clenching and unclenching the cheap bedspread. He was just wanted to take Sherlock into his arms and tell him that he'd help him to get back on track, that it would be fine. That he loved him. But they weren't like that anymore. John was starting to make himself get used to the idea that they might never be like that again.

"John?" Greg sounded gob smacked. He flipped on the lights making Sherlock wince and hide his face in his pillow. John held up his pointer finger to his lips to shush the DI, while he brought the duvet up around Sherlock's shoulders, before sliding off of the bed to address Greg. He signaled for Greg to move back into the hallway, turning off the lights and retreating from the room himself.

"Maybe try keeping a better eye on him next time." John snapped when they had made it to the small living room.  
"What are you talking about? Why are you here? Did he…"

"No. He didn't remember. He showed up to the flat. He'd had someone on the homeless network find out who 'the crying man in Angelo's' was." John explained as he fell onto the couch. He'd been here for hours, and hadn't had a moment to relax since he'd arrived here. He had been so tense, waiting for Sherlock to wake up from his crash; his muscles were so tight they ached.

"I told Mycroft this would happen eventually. Are you uh,"

"Am I ok? No. I'm not. But he's much farther from ok than I am. He's using again Greg." Greg's mouth fell open. He started pacing the small area rug.

"Oh Jesus. Fucking hell. Is he all right? He didn't overdose again did he?

"No, but he was close. He still has the mind set that he's a regular user. His body isn't used to all of that anymore." John sighed, thoroughly exhausted, sinking farther into the couch cushions.

Greg stopped pacing suddenly and sat in his chair. "I'm so sorry we didn't tell you John. We just thought it would be easier for both of you. It was stupid and would have never worked. At first it was to protect you from Moran. But then when he woke up and didn't remember… We didn't want to overwhelm him because… well you know how he was when you met. And we imagined it would have killed you. You have all that happiness because he's alive! And then he doesn't remember who you are. We didn't want to put you through that. Of course we would have told you if he'd remembered…"

John put up his hand to stop Greg from going any further. His head was pounding and he really didn't care all that much. What's done is done. "Honestly Greg I don't care right now. I'm just thankful that he can never let a fucking thing go and came back to Baker Street or he might have choked on his own vomit by now."

Sherlock came to, unaware of where he was. The he remembered that John had been here. He'd helped him. He looked to the other side of the bed, finding it empty. He got out of bed clumsily. He found himself in the living room looking at a sleeping John. He was sprawled on the couch; the blanket had slipped off of him and was now pooled on the floor.

Sherlock grabbed the blanket and put it back on him. "Thank you John." He said before he retreated into his room, picking up his violin and playing yet another unfamiliar composition.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock removed the kettle from the stove when it started to whistle, filling two teacups he had previously placed on the counter. He retrieved the milk from the fridge and poured some in both cups. He moved to get the sugar putting two spoonfuls in the first cup out of habit when he started to wonder if John took sugar.

_Sherlock was transported into a large, clean, white and blue kitchen. Where the hell was he? He was making tea, knowing exactly where things were. He made two cups adding sugar to both, he started walking stopping next to John and handing him the teacup. He took a sip and his face scrunched up. "I don't take sugar." He said. _

Well that answers that question, he thought as he replaced the sugar back in the cabinet. He brought the tea into the living room where John is still snored quietly, setting the cups on the coffee table. He wrapped his robe around himself tighter trying to fight off the chill of the morning, before he sat down as silently as he could manage. John needed his sleep after being up with him all of yesterday. Caring for him.

Caring was such a foreign concept. He barely knew John. Well he supposed he did know John quite well he just didn't know he did. Just thinking of it filled him with frustration. He took a deep breath in and out to keep from screaming. Again not wanting to wake John or it wouldn't have mattered if it were only 8:30.

Sherlock sat there sipping his tea for a good 20 minutes just watching John, trying to reach further and further. Picking out more and more details he observed about him and trying to see if they opened up any rooms in his mind palace. But all of the doors were closed and John didn't hold the key.

He sighed plopping his feet on the coffee table, a little to roughly. John started to stir, groaning as he turned over on the thin couch, nearly falling onto the floor.

"Ah John good to see you're awake." Sherlock said as John slid to a sitting position, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "Tea's still hot." He told him pointing to the cup that was still steaming. "No sugar right?" Sherlock saw hope rush into John's eyes. "Oh no sorry, I didn't remember well… I did remember a little just not all of it." He said with a swish of his hand, dismissing all of John's hopes.

"It's ok." He said unconvincingly. "Thank you for the tea." He said raising his cup before taking a sip. He swallowed hard, putting his cup back on the table he leaned his elbows on his knees. Ugh Sherlock wished he could get out of whatever lecture he knew was coming next. "About last night," John started.

"Please I'm hardly sober enough to listen to this." Sherlock's head still pounded and everything was still slightly off. The tea was helping though.

"No Sherlock I'm not going through this shit. I… I can't deal with memory loss and a relapse at the same time."

"Then don't." A pin drop could be heard in the silence that enveloped the room. John's breath hitched when he realized this was his fault. All his fault. Oh god he'd pushed him so far. Taking him to all of those places, he made the memories seem so important. Of course Sherlock would be so frustrated with himself, his mind was he most important part of him and John was a reminder that it was broken. The only way Sherlock knew how to escape his own mind was drugs.

"Fuck. I was just trying to help." He said it more to convince himself than to convince Sherlock. "I didn't mean to push you so far, I just… it's so hard to be around you knowing you really don't have a clue who I am." He felt a fat tear roll down his cheek not bothering to wipe it away. "I know it's not your fault. Jim fucking Moriarty." He added the last part under his breath."

"What did you say?" Sherlock asked getting up and standing right in front of John, towering over him. The previous topic completely forgotten with the mention of Moriarty, Sherlock had nearly forgotten him with John's daily trips about London to regain his memory.

"Jim Moriarty? Does it ring a bell?" Oh god the hope was back, time to squash it again, Sherlock thought.

"One of the first things I remembered was a man, he'd been shot and he was just lying on the ground, he screamed Moriarty. And then I saw you at Speedy's and I thought you might be Moriarty. I don't know why really, he seemed important and obviously someone who would know my name… So who is he anyway?"

"He's the man that burned my heart out."


	10. Chapter 10

**Yes so as someone pointed out I kind of screwed up the continuity a little, so I fixed that! there is a new ending of this chapter but it still gets to the same place. So thank you for pointing that out! I wrote the first take at like 2:30 am so forgive me please? Anyway here you go! **

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"Just like he said he would. Well actually he said he'd burn the heart out of you but it hardly matters." John continued after a few minutes of silence where Sherlock was too busy thinking to ask questions. "He tried to expose you as a fake. Created a whole different identity, Richard brook, tried to tell everyone that you hired him."

"Hired him as what?"

"As a villain. He made it look like you made him commit all of those murders and kidnappings so that you could look like the hero when you solved the. Everyone believed him because it was that or believe that you were actually capable of doing what is impossible to most people. They believed that you were a fake; they wanted to believe you were ordinary. Greg tried to arrest you…us, but you had me as your hostage in a matter of seconds and we ran from them."

_ He stood in a living room; the wall to the left of him was filled with pictures and the couch that he had been sitting on just moments before. He was talking to a woman, and John was standing next to him, fuming. The door creaked open and a man walked in carrying a grocery bag… "You said they wouldn't find me here. You said that I'd be safe here." He said backing away. Terrified. _

_ "You are safe Richard, I'm a witness they wouldn't harm you in front of witness'." The woman assured him._

_ "So that's your source? Moriarty is Richard Brook?" John asked._

_ "Of course he is Richard Brook, there is no Moriarty. Never has been." She answered._

_ "What are you talking about?" John questioned._

_ "Look him up, Rich Brook; an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty."_

"Sherlock you alright? You were having a flash back weren't you?"

"Did we go to a woman's house after that? Moriarty was there wasn't he?"

"Yes. After that I don't know where you went. You told me you had to do whatever you were doing alone so I went and talked to Mycroft."

"What did you talk to Mycroft about?"

"I talked to him about the fact that he… Never mind it's not important anymore." Why ruin their already rocky relationship over something that didn't matter now anyway. "Anyway you texted me to come to Bart's. Moriarty had left a key at the flat, a code that could unlock anything. You were going to use it to expose Richard Brook as a fake, and clear your name." John stopped, clearing his throat before he continued. "You never found out what the code was. After that I got a call that Mrs. Hudson had been shot, and I left. When I realized that she hadn't been shot it was too late. You were already on the roof. You called me, we talked and you told me to tell everyone who would listen that you were a fake."

"Why?"

"Well that's the great mystery isn't it? The final mystery. The mystery that would go unsolved because Sherlock Holmes wasn't there to figure it out."

"…_and I die in disgrace." Sherlock said as he overlooked London from the rooftop of Bart's, Moriarty at his side._

_ "Well of course, that's the point of this."_

"… _as long as I'm alive you can save your friends. Well good luck with that." Moriarty reached into jackets inside pocket, retrieving a gun he shot himself in the mouth, falling to the ground. Dead._

John knew that look by now. The glassed over eyes, not seemingly focused on anything. "Sherlock what'd you see?" John leaned forward touching Sherlock's shoulder to try to get his attention.

"John," Sherlock started staring wide eyed up at him. "I wasn't the only one on that roof. He was there John, Moriarty was there! He said something about saving my friends. I don't know what that means."

"Moriarty was there with you? When you jumped?"

"Well he was dead by then. He shot himself in the mouth. Why would he go through all that trouble to make me into a fake, just to shoot himself? Could you bring me there John? Bring me to the roof; maybe it will help me remember what happened." John felt tears pricking his eyes just think about going back there. He knew that he shouldn't care about it anymore because Sherlock was alive, but he still lost something that day.

Yes Sherlock was alive but it wasn't his Sherlock. The new, or shall he say old Sherlock is amazing, and brilliant and everything Sherlock had always been to John. Except he didn't know how to love him, that was the hardest part of all of this. But he would go back there with Sherlock in hopes that he could remember something that would help him figure out what the fuck happened on that roof.

John wanted to latch onto Sherlock's coat and drag him away from the ledge that he had once jumped from. But he restrained himself, letting Sherlock observe and deduce and try to remember. After what felt like a lifetime Sherlock stepped off of the ledge turning back to John with a sour face. "Nothing." He spat. "I should have known this would have been useless."

He made his way back towards the middle of the roof and suddenly spun around in a circle, his hands going to his head. "What is it?" John asked excited at the prospect of new information on what really happened that day.

"Something about gunmen. I don't know it was a Short one and blurred, like I was focused on something else. But I think this ties in with saving my friends. I think he was going to shoot you John."

"But why would you still jump if he'd killed himself?"

"Someone who could create a new identity just to pin me to his crimes obviously had men," Sherlock explained going back to the ledge making John's stomach flip. "He would have had gunmen watching you. But he said friends so… Lestrade as well, and who was the woman you mentioned earlier?"

"Mrs. Hudson, our landlady."

"And I would think of her a friend yes?"

"Yes, she was more like a mother to you than your own mother. You loved her."

"So that's it then. It was your lives or mine." He said peering over the edge, looking down to where he fell.

_His vision was clouded and he knew he was going to pass out any second but he needed to try to see him once more, to have one last memory of his touch before he was wheeled away, not knowing when he'd be able to see him again, if ever. "It's ok he's my friend let me through." It was John, Sherlock could only see him out of the corner of his eye, unable to move anything, but he was there. He grabbed his hand and then it slipped down to his wrist, checking for a pulse. Always his army doctor. And then it all went black. _

"I have a grave yes?"

"Of course."

"Bring me to it."

He stood there, staring at a gravestone, _his _gravestone. It was simple black with gold lettering. Sleek and smooth and him. But it wasn't his. So who's was it? Was it some random bloke from the morgue, or just an empty casket? And who had he trusted enough to tell beforehand that he knew he was going to die to keep his survival a secret from John? Of course the answer came to him straight away. Who else did he trust in the medical field besides John himself? And of course that person was Molly Hooper.


	11. Chapter 11

"He doesn't know everything does he?" Sherlock stood over Molly as she performed he last post mortem for the day. She was just stitching up the man in his late 30's that had been found dead on the side of the road earlier that morning; it was drugs that had done him in. Sherlock thought about his many previous over doses. Seeing the result of this mans almost made him want to quit. But he knew it wasn't going to be easy. Molly snapped him back to reality when she said,

"No, he doesn't. Not the truth anyway." She quickly tied the sutures and then proceeded to slide the man into the small rectangular refrigerator he would stay in until his funeral. "Neither do you and that' s why you came here, because you think I do."

"Of course you do. You're the only medical professional I trust with my life."

"That's far from the truth." John of course, but Sherlock still didn't really know what to think of him yet. Molly motioned for him to follow as she led them both into the lab. She plucked off her gloves tossing them in the garbage. She took a seat on a stool; Sherlock took the one next to her. "I'm guessing John has told you what really happened, well his version of it anyway."

"Yes, he has, but I know that he doesn't know the whole story."

"No he doesn't. You didn't want him to. Some how you figured out that Jim was going to kill you that day."

"I know that, I've seen it. Did I ever mention anything about John being in danger?"

"You had a hunch about it. Well it was _you_ so it was obviously more than a hunch. Anyway you came to me the night before. You told me that you thought that you were going to die. I honestly don't know how you did it, but you being you knew how you could survive the fall. You just needed me to fix you up after and make sure that everyone thought you were dead. That was the plan anyway." Molly sighed, Sherlock looked up at her seeing her eyes were glassy. Obviously it hadn't been easy for Molly.

"I'm guessing I hadn't prepared you for a coma." He mustered as much of an apologetic tone as he could.

"No definitely not." She said through a choked laugh, giving him a sad smile. "You didn't want Mycroft to know about your survival but you weren't doing well at the beginning and I couldn't deny him his rights. Plus he's probably the reason you survived all of this. It's true what they say; the patients who have people who talk to them have a better chance. Mycroft made it a point to come everyday, even if it was only for a few minutes." Sherlock wouldn't have believed this if it were coming from anyone else. Sherlock couldn't picture Mycroft sitting by his hospital bed, telling him the day's news. He couldn't picture him asking Molly how he was doing, asking if there was any improvement. But he knew Molly didn't lie. Well unless he asked her to.

"Did I ever say anything about Moriarty's men?"

"Not in so many words. You just told me to keep John and the others safe. You made me promise you that I wouldn't tell them you were alive, no matter how bad things got. There was something that you had to do before you could come back. I'm sorry I had to break that promise."

"It's quite alright Molly, I don't remember it anyway. Do you know what I had to do?"

"I didn't until Mycroft told me. See he'd talked to Moriarty, gotten him to open up by… Well anyway he found out about his men. Sebastian Moran was Jim's second in command. Mycroft said that you would have gone after him, along with the rest of Moriarty's men. I would be the only way you'd be able to come back."

"Because then John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would be safe."

"Yes." Molly sighed, this was really the first time that she'd seen Sherlock awake since he'd been released from the hospital. She looked him up and down; he looked alright physically which meant that he was eating at least. Something wasn't quite right though, he could just be overwhelmed with everything, which would be totally reasonable and expected, which is why she doubted it. Always expect the unexpected when it came to Sherlock Holmes. "I know you aren't the type for sharing, but something's wrong. I can tell and I just want you to know that you can talk to me."

"We've done this whole song and dance before haven't we Molly?" he looked at the polished, sterile white floor of the lab. He scanned the rest of the room slowly. It was so familiar, so refreshing to know exactly where he was. He could open any drawer and know exactly what was going to be in it. He never changed his lab. Or at least he thought he didn't. He hoped. He turned his attention back to molly whose eyes had suddenly lifted from their gaze at the floor to catch his. "Slight Déjà vu. Happens occasionally."

"I see, well that's better than we had anticipated. Back to your question, yes."

"I just want you to know that I might not be very good at…"

"Expressing your feelings? Any human interaction at all actually, unless you're bossing someone around, or bringing to light how inadequate they are. And who can forget your very descriptive deductions?" Molly cheeks flamed when she realized that she'd been speaking out loud, but Sherlock gave a deep chuckle.

"Precisely. As you said I'm not good with people, but just know Molly Hooper that you are one of the only people I can count on. Thank you for today, I think I've pieced together what happened." Sherlock blew out a breath getting ready to inform Molly about his observation. "Most importantly, I can assure you that James Moriarty did not die on that roof."


	12. Chapter 12

Molly stared at him wide-eyed, too breathless to ask for an explanation, so Sherlock carried on. "I saw it," Sherlock's hands were circling around his head, his eyes closed as he tried to view the images again, making sure of what he'd seen. "I must not have realized it before, probably shock or something like that." He rolled his eyes, _him in shock_ it was laughable. "There was not nearly enough blood, and much to little brain matter. He shot himself through the mouth pointed up into his brain, it's would have blown the back of his head off."

"He's really back isn't he?" Molly bit nervously at the inside of her lip until she tasted blood. _No, no Jim was dead. He was supposed to be dead. He couldn't be alive._

"Yes, and I'm going after him." Sherlock reached for his coat that he'd laid on the lab table earlier in their conversation, slipping it on. Fixing his scarf on his neck as Molly nearly screamed at him.

"No Sherlock you can't!" She tried to come off as demanding but it was hard when she couldn't control the shaking that started to wrack her body. She'd thought everything would be ok now. Moriarty was supposed to be dead, along with Moran and the rest of them. She couldn't help but think of John, he'd already gone through so much. He'd never want Sherlock to go looking for Moriarty with the risk of him being killed again. Permanently. "You don't know what he's like Sherlock. He's absolutely ruthless. If he knows you're alive he'll be furious."

"All the more reason to go looking for him before he comes after me. That way I can be ready." He took off down the darkened corridor of the now closed morgue. Leaving Molly sputtering behind him, he just ignored her (as usual). Finding Moriarty and ending him for good was best for everyone.

Sherlock searched for his phone in his pocket, he took it out and flipped it once before unlocking it and checking for the message that he knew he would have from either Greg or John. It was a voice mail from John.

_Where are you? I've called Greg he says you're not at home. I'm… er sorry. You don't have to answer that. I just can't help but be worried you know? (a long, heavy sigh made the phone crackle) I'm sorry again, I'll just, uh… bye. Call me back when you get this. _

He thought of John then, how would John feel if Sherlock went looking for Moriarty? Sherlock might not completely know, or understand what their relationship had been like. They were more than just acquaintances, and most likely more than friends, that was obvious. But how serious had it been? It appeared to be pretty serious, but Sherlock couldn't even comprehend that right now. But he would be doing this for John too. If he couldn't give John the satisfaction of retaining his memories of them then he would give him safety from the man that had taken them away.

Until he could track down Moriarty he figured that he should spend as much time with John. Just incase. He scrolled to the top of their texts, hitting the call button on the top. The phone rang only twice before he heard John's voice on the other end greeting him.

"Jesus, I was about to have Greg send out the unit." Sherlock didn't realize that he'd been out all day, not bothering to text anyone. The first part of the day he had just been wandering aimlessly around the city, thinking about everything he'd seen the previous day. He also did a little memorizing, but not much, he was too focused on getting to the bottom of everything. Then he'd gone to talk to Molly that had wasted an hour or so.

"I'm alive don't worry." He heard a dark chuckle escape from the other end of the line and smirked to himself.

"Not funny Sherlock."

"Oh come on! It's a little funny." That earned him a real laugh that made him _real_ smile. It was nearly 9:30 when he turned the corner onto Baker Street. Greg's wasn't that far away, but John's (and his he guessed) place was right here. "Mind if I stay with you tonight? I was going to walk to Greg's but I'm on Baker Street now and I'm starved."

"Now that you mention it, I am too. I would offer you a home cooked meal but we don't have any food. I know; stay where you are, I know a good Chinese place. Stays open till two."

"You can always tell a good Chinese place,"

"By examining the lower third of the door handle." John finished.

"So you've heard that one already?"

"Who do you think I heard it from?" They both cackled at that. He saw John emerge from 221 b. He was smiling, the first genuine smile Sherlock had seen in many weeks. Many hard, and disappointing weeks. He didn't realize until after the fact that his own cheek had pulled up, revealing a one sided smile of his own. He was starting to be able to relax around John. He was comfortable. He was never really easy around people, too many thoughts always jamming up and as much as he tried (well sometimes), the deductions just slipped out in a sort of word vomit. But he felt like he was able to control himself around John. He didn't want to know every little secret about him. He wanted John to tell them to him. It was a ridiculous feeling, but a nice one.

"So this Chinese place, we visited it often?" Sherlock inquired as they rounded the corner turning off Baker Street. He looked down at John, still smiling. He was interesting, his brow was creased with worry lines, but his eyes read as strong and sure. Sherlock noticed that John's posture had straightened since he'd first met him; it was almost back to the stiff as a board posture of a soldier. He knew it probably had something to do with his return, but he wouldn't let over thinking ruin the night. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to look away. No more deductions tonight, he wanted to be able to have a conversation with John without knowing everything he's about to say before hand.

"All the time, you especially liked the dumplings."

"Aren't I usually the one telling you things about yourself?" Another chuckle as he opened the door for John, who led him to a table in the front of the restaurant near a large window that overlooked the sidewalk. Perfect for people watching which is why, he supposed, John had chosen it knowing Sherlock enjoyed the activity. He looked over the menu and when the waitress came over he was sure to order extra dumplings.


	13. Chapter 13

"I'm certain Lestrade has already informed you that I have been reacquainted with Dr. Watson." The elder Holmes lowered the newspaper he'd been reading to glare at his younger brother. He stared just long enough to make Sherlock uneasy, folding his newspaper and placing it on the table next to him he responded to his brother.

"No, I wasn't made aware of that fact."

"Hmm, interesting. Anyway he's told me what really happened, Mycroft."

"Well I would figure as much." Mycroft snapped. "Please Sherlock I was only trying to protect both of you."

"Please brother I don't care about any of that trivial "feelings" business. I'm here on much more important matters. I've been getting flash backs. John has been taking me to places I had been, trying to jump my memory. Usually never works but sometimes I can see small scenes,"

"Get to the point Sherlock. I have a meeting at 3." Mycroft tapped his watch to enforce his words.

"He's not dead Mycroft." At that the elder Holmes quirked his eyebrow, suddenly intrigued by what his little brother had to say.

"Are you telling me that James Moriarty is still alive?"

"Yes. There is no possible way that he could have really shot himself in the head and had only a trickle of blood to prove it. He's alive Mycroft, and I have to go after him before he comes after me. Or John."

Mycroft breathed in deeply, releasing it as he leaned forward bracing his elbows on his knees. Placing his joined hands under his chin. It was what the Holmes' did when they were thinking. "You are telling me the man that did this to you is alive and you are going after him?" Mycroft chuckled lightly. "That's quite funny Sherlock."

"I'm serious Mycroft."

"I won't allow it. Please Sherlock I have the whole British government at my disposal. Let me take care of this. It would be my pleasure. I've already taken care of the rest of his men for you."

"Yes I figured as much when Molly told me my plan. But I need to do this myself. He's the final problem, and I need to fix it. If I can fix this then I can come to terms with what happened. If not I'll always regret not getting revenge."

"Please Sherlock, when are you going to learn that you can't fool me." Mycroft said with a smirk, leaning back in his chair giving up easily on trying to convince Sherlock to let him take care of it. He would go after him anyway. "Going after Moriarty is not completely selfish."

"I owe it to him."

"Sentiment?"

"As unimaginable as it seems, yes."

_Be back in a few days, there is something I have to do out of town. I might not be able to be reached by cell phone where I'm going. If I don't return with in a week call Mycroft, he'll know what to do.-SH_

John's hands tighten on the note that he'd found between the strings of Sherlock's old violin that was propped on his chair. The air was too thick to breath. Soon he was short of breath running out the door he hailed a cab and jumped in the back. He shouted out Greg's address. He threw the money at the cabbie and took off up the walk to Greg's front door, he buzzed incessantly. "Jesus what?" Greg finally answered.

"He's gone Greg." The buzzer sounds and the door is unlocked. Greg was waiting in the doorway to his flat when John reached the top of the stairs.

"What do you mean he's gone?" John hands him the wrinkled note. He read it over quickly. "Do you have any idea what's he's talking about?"

"Not a clue."

It had been easy enough for Mycroft's people to find the whereabouts of Moriarty. Now Sherlock was headed to Saint Andrews, Scotland. A town right on the coast of the North Sea. The train rolled into a station, still miles from Saint Andrews. Stopping to let people on and off, the train was scheduled to continue down up the coast in 10 minutes. Leaving enough time to get something to eat. If only he were hungry. His stomach was in knots, he didn't know if it was the guilt that he might be leaving John again, for good this time. Or if it was the fact that he really didn't know what to expect. Well of course Moriarty is a criminal mastermind that is easy enough. But would he be alone or would he have found more men to recruit?

He thought it all over as he made his way down the aisle of the train, his legs were stiff from the hours he'd already spent sitting. He needed to walk around for a few minutes outside. Get some fresh air, so he wouldn't be so restless for the rest of the day's journey.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. John must have gotten back to the flat and found his note. He was sure to get hundreds of the same kind of texts in the next few days. He promised himself; as much as he wanted to he wouldn't respond. It would be all too easy for John to have Lestrade track his phone. He didn't want him to come after him and risk his life; Sherlock had already risked it enough. He would turn his phone off a couple of miles outside of Saint Andrews. He decided this as he made his way back towards the train stopping only to investigate a whiny howling coming from behind him.

A scruffy tan and black bloodhound sits across from the tracks. He stares at Sherlock giving justice to the term puppy dog eyes. Of course puppy dog eyes didn't work on Sherlock Holmes. Not until the dog leaped up, jogging towards the detective. Sherlock knelt down scratching at the dog's neck lightly. The dog whined pitifully, rubbing his head on Sherlock's coat, trying to climb onto his lap. The dog was little more than a puppy. Maybe a year old. The pup didn't have tags or a collar, and by the look of him clearly had no owner. At least not an owner that took proper care of him.

"Alright well come on then." He patted his back leg as he took up the stairs, motioning for the dog to follow him. He led the dog down the isle, patting the seat next to his. The nameless dog curled up and fell asleep. Snoring slightly for the rest of the train ride.


	14. Chapter 14

**Someone asked about character deaths, there will be a character death but not John or Sherlock. **

* * *

"Did you try texting him?"

"Greg do you really think that I wouldn't try texting him? Of course I did, hundreds of times. I've even tried calling, goes straight to voicemail. His phone is shut off. Probably knows I would have tracked it." John's leg bounced anxiously as he sat in one of the chairs of Greg's office. Greg was busy contacting anyone he could think of that could have possibly see Sherlock in the four days that he had been gone. Train stations, airports, and bus lines, anywhere and everywhere.

"If he doesn't want to be found he won't be John. And you know he doesn't want to be found right now." John put his head in his hands, rubbing his chin a few times before he accepted what he knew was the truth. Sherlock wasn't going to be found if he didn't want to be, but John sure as hell wasn't going to give up trying.

He couldn't see more than a couple of inches ahead of him in the darkness of the warehouse. Thankfully he had the dog he had found at the train stations four days ago (who he had later named Gladstone) to lead him through the halls. He was a remarkably smart dog for his age, and very quiet, which was extremely important in order for Sherlock's plan to go smoothly.

He knew the second he had found it; the door was completely shut while all the rest were slightly ajar, the doors all too swollen to fit properly in their jambs. This door was new, and locked. Gladstone's nose was immediately on it, sniffing at the eight of an inch crack that was left between the door and the concrete floor of the old abandon building. Sherlock picked the lock easily, just as he had done to break into Baker Street. He sauntered in, hopefully not showing how unsure he felt.

"Hello James." Jim had turned when he heard the door unlocking, his back now facing the many monitors that displayed hundreds of locations all cycling through. "Next time you might want to take me to a higher building."

"Sherlock," Jim's eyes scanned him over carefully, checking for any obvious weapons before rising from his chair. He began to pace a few feet away from the detective. Not pace so much as move around, he wasn't anxious or nervous of what Sherlock might do, that was obvious. "I can honestly say I didn't expect to see you here. How did you find my little hiding spot?" He was smiling, Sherlock wanted to vomit, why had he thought he was prepared for this? Because you're an idiot just like the rest of them, he thought. Of course he wasn't though, and he had a plan he would have never came here if he didn't have a plan.

"How do you think?"

"Well your brother that's obvious." Jim scoffed. "You know I'm very angry with your big brother Sherlock. It was rude of him to kill _all_ of my men. Wasn't Sebby enough for him?"

_Moriarty sat in Sherlock's chair in 221b, his teacup half way to his mouth. "The man with the key is king, and honey you should see me in a crown." He smirked and the image faded. Ah the roof again, he was getting rather tired of these roof scenes. Moriarty circled him looking at him like he was lunch. Sherlock tapped out a rhythm behind his back. "Good you got that too. "It was hidden on me, hidden inside my head. A few simple lines of computer code that could break into any system." "Told all my clients. Last one to Sherlock is a sissy."_

"Anyone of them would have come after me, not just Moran. They knew I still had the code."

"Very good,_ very _good. Ooh there is something different about you and I just can't for the life of me place what it is."

"You'll just have to figure it out, hopefully you'll get it before I kill you."

"Oh Sherlock you don't want to be rude do you? Please at least offer me some tea before you threaten me. Honestly I'm shocked at your crassness." He said with a sarcastically dramatic wave of his hand. He took a seat at the small pop up table in the corner, it was covered in papers, no not just papers pictures. Pictures of John, and Greg and Mrs. Hudson. Even Molly, but unlike the pictures of the rest of them Molly's were completely un-tampered with. The rest had angry red Xs through them. "Oh yes well, I got a bit carried away didn't I? Haven't had the heart to clear anything out of this place. See it was Seb's, I sent him these pictures so he'd know whom to kill, except you jumped. Of course I knew you would, you wouldn't let your precious little John get shot. Again! And that's when it happened yeah?"

"When what happened?" Sherlock was testing him to see if he had actually managed to figure it out.

"The memory loss obviously." Sherlock frowned wondering what had given him away. "You said 'They knew I still had the code'. But you don't you never had the code. There was no code. And even though you have flash backs they're brief and you often don't get all the information."

"Ooh you're quite good aren't you."

"Oh come on Sherlock don't pretend like you didn't know that about me… Oops forgot sorry." He smirked laughing manically before spinning off to face the monitors that were constantly changing between hundreds of different scenes. "So you've come here to kill me. What makes you think I'll let you?" Moriarty pulled a gun from his inside jacket pocket. He didn't aim it anywhere in particular, just flung it around almost nonchalantly. Gladstone was so still by Sherlock's side he'd forgotten he was there until he began to growl, it shook his holy body. His teeth were bared he snapped his jaw.

"You don't think I was going to come here not expecting a fight do you? I'm a genius, please have more faith in me than that." He stepped in front of the dog, which calmed him slightly.

"You didn't put up much of a fight last time."

"Enough with the games Jim, you know how I hate small talk. It's time to get down to business."

"You're so cute when you're angry, I can see why John keeps you around."

"Precisely why I'm doing this, I can't have him in danger anymore. You've put him through enough already. But I'm willing to make you a deal."

"A deal Sherlock, oh god that's funny. What could you possibly have that I would want more than revenge for your brother destroying my web? I've had to start all over, it's a very tedious job, and I don't get nearly enough credit as I deserve."

"Oh you'll be very interested in this."

"Well go on then spit it out! Shoot!" He challenged taking a step forward. Sherlock carefully reached for the gun sticking out of the waistband of his slacks. Jim's own gun still flopping wherever his hands went. Once Sherlock's hand was wrapped around the gun he whipped it out and pointed it at Moriarty adding quickly, "You asked for it." Before a shot echoed around the cement walls.


	15. Chapter 15

The bullet lodged its self deep into Sherlock's left shoulder. Blood seeped through the fabric of his white button up staining it deep red before pooling on the floor. The force of the blow had made his own shot go way off to the left, shattering one of the monitors. Moriarty strode towards Sherlock who was now kneeling on the ground, his gun on the floor next to him. His right hand gathered the remaining fabric of his coat and pushed it against the wound to slow the bleeding. "You underestimated me again Sherlock. I thought you would have learned by now." Jim said in almost a singsong tone.

Sherlock purposefully made his breathing heavier, whimpering slightly. Giving the impression that he was in far more pain than he actually was. He wasn't in pain at all; he could feel the adrenaline coursing through him, giving his just enough strength and speed to snatch his discarded gun sending a quick shot through Moriarty's chest before he could even see it coming.

He fell, hitting the ground hard. There was a loud crack that Sherlock guessed was Jim's head splitting open on the cement floor. Sherlock got up slowly, steadying himself against the nearest wall before he went over to look at the other man. He was still alive. He gurgled deep in his throat making blood snake from between his lips trailing down the side of his face.

"And you underestimated me." Sherlock said sending another bullet through Moriarty's head. The gurgling stopped and suddenly the warehouse was entirely too quiet. Sherlock just wanted to be home. He wanted to be with John.

"It's been 5 days Mycroft, if you won't tell me where he has gone than at least have someone else check on him. He's your little brother; you can't tell me you're not worried too. Please, do it for him." John hit end, sending the voicemail off to Mycroft.

He set his phone down before sighing as he lay down on the couch, stretching out just as Sherlock did when he was thinking. He closed his eyes trying to imagine Sherlock walking through the door. He would gather John into a hug and tell him that he was fine. Tell him that everything was alright, he would never leave him again. He would apologize for making him worry himself sick. And he would mean all of it. He would keep his promise; he would never leave him again. If only.

Sherlock unbuttoned his ruined shirt, tearing off part of it with his teeth to make a tourniquet. He screamed as he wound it tightly around his shoulder. Everything hurt now that the adrenaline was gone. Gladstone rubbed his head against Sherlock's legs as if to say that he was sorry for his pain. He winced again as he put on his jacket (thankfully he'd left that at his hotel when he'd confronted Moriarty). He buttoned it with one hand before he reached into his pockets to retrieve his phone. It felt like an eternity had passed before it booted up. Soon an alert came up that informed him that he had 267 text messages. 240 of them were from John alone, 19 from Molly and 8 from Greg.

Most of them were messages such as _Please just tell me you're ok!, _and, _Please come home safe, I can't handle losing you again. _Guilt flooded through him. He knew John would worry but he never imagined… He decided it would be best not to call him, it would just make him even more worried, it'd be better if he just showed up.

Gladstone nearly had to leap up the steps of Baker Street with his stubby little legs. Sherlock didn't bother knocking, the door was open and it gave John less time to decide to punch him. It was a good thing he didn't knock because he opened the door to see John asleep on the couch. He motioned for Gladstone to sit by the door, before tiptoeing over to John. He didn't want to wake him, he looked like this was the first sleep he'd had since the day he'd left. Dark circles hung under his eyes, his normally kept hair was ruffled and slightly greasy looking as if he hadn't bothered to shower today.

Sherlock took the blanket off the back of the couch, He tried (tried being the operative word) to lay it over him with one hand. He tried to smooth out the rumpled mess he'd made but before he could finish John was awake and staring at him like he'd seen a ghost, but he doesn't say anything. Just stares at him, frozen. Afraid that if he moves even one muscle he'll be gone.

"Sorry to wake you. You look like you need the sleep." John's fist connects with Sherlock's cheek. Before he can even wince John is sat straight up with his arms wrapped tight around his shoulders. Sherlock tries not to scream out but his body betrays him.

John releases him immediately, wincing before he says, "Let me see it." He helps Sherlock remove his jacket, letting it drop to the floor. Sherlock can't help but notice the glint of tears in John's eyes when he see's the makeshift bandage that is already soaked through with his blood. But soon the tears are dried up, forgotten as he becomes _Army Doctor_ John H. Watson. The man that is used to seeing gunshot wounds. The man that can handle this. He can't let himself be John Watson, Sherlock Holmes' _blogger, best friend, partner_ right now because he'd lose himself, and he can't lose himself.

He acts quickly, the wound has already been left open for too long, Sherlock's already lost far more blood than is safe. He retrieves his supplies. Removing the bullet is the worst part. Sherlock screams and moans and grunts and he's almost had enough when John gives one final tug and the bullet is out and a fresh stream of blood escapes his shoulder. The sting of the disinfectant it bad but is over with quickly. John stitches him up, deft fingers going through practiced motions, causing as little pain as possible when you have a needle repeatedly going through your skin. He applies more antibacterial ointment before covering it with gauze securing it with medical tape.

"Thank you." Sherlock muttered when John had finished helping him slip on a t-shirt (not painlessly). John could only nod, his throat was still tight scratchy with anxiety and fear but also relief. "I'm sorry…" He trailed off as he saw a single tear escape and fall down John's cheek. With out thinking Sherlock took John's cheek in his hand, wiping away his tear with his thumb. "It's over now." Sherlock assured him. John's arms found a place around the detective's waist while he cried into his right shoulder. He didn't even know what was over, he was just glad it was.


	16. Chapter 16

**Ok so I know I've been awful at updating, I'm trying to figure out a way to end this thing and in turn have had a major case of writers block. So I'm thinking one or two more chapters after this. Just a warning more character death to ensue. Anyway thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy! **

* * *

John carefully removed the medical tape and gauze. The wound was healing quite nicely, but he still needed to disinfect it again. Sherlock winced as the disinfectant his shoulder, making it burn but only for a moment. John patched him up again and helped him slip his shirt back on.

"Thank you John. How long do you think I'll be able to play?" Sherlock asked pointing to his old violin that hadn't been touched in months. The one he'd been staring at lustfully since he'd started staying at Baker Street. John and Lestrade both thought it best, John could take far better care of him than Greg.

"I know you like to compose when you're thinking but you have to resist a few more days." John said regretfully, he truly missed the sound of Sherlock playing his violin as he tried to sleep. It had been annoying at first but had become comforting over the years. He couldn't wait to hear it again as he lay in bed, his eyes closed picturing Sherlock in the living room with his violin resting under his chin as his bow moved back and forth over the strings. He would always think about getting up and going downstairs to watch him, to listen to him, but every time he stopped himself. Composing during the night was a time for Sherlock to think about cases, John didn't want to disturb that.

"John?" John was snapped out of his daydream.

"Hmm?"

"I asked if you were hungry."

"Oh yes starved."

"So what will it be? Angelo's? Or maybe Thai?"

"Angelo's. I'm in the mood for Italian."

"Yes, I could go for some pasta as well."

Angelo lit the small candle in the middle of the table before sharing a look of sympathy with John. Sherlock looked between the two of them, a look of confusion plastered on his face until he felt the memory cloud his vision.

_"I'll get a candle for the table. More romantic!" Angelo said hurrying off. "I'm not his date!" John yelled after him. John sighed as Angelo placed the small candle on the table anyway. _

So maybe he and John hadn't been…

"Can you just tell me already, censoring what you tell me isn't going to help me at all. In fact it will probably only hurt the chances of me remembering."

"What are you.."

"You do remember that part about my deducing abilities? You can't honestly think I haven't figured it out by now."

"Figured what…"

"Oh god, you're infuriating." And then Sherlock's hand was behind John's head and he was pulling him towards him. John couldn't begin to describe the feeling of their lips meeting for the first time in way too long. It was like he was being awakened from the bad dream he'd been living in, but it was also strange because everything was still so different, and clumsy and they were in the middle of Angelo's and Sherlock really didn't know what this meant. So he might have looked slightly disappointed when he pulled away from Sherlock, sue him, he'd lost the most important thing to him only to get him back in pieces. Pieces that would most likely never fit his like they had once before. There is only ever one solution to a puzzle. You might get some pieces to fit but it would never be complete.

"I'm…" Sherlock started only to be stopped by John's lifted hand. "I didn't mean to…" He didn't know how to finish that sentence. He didn't know how to do anything at the moment. What he was feeling was ineffable, so amazingly ineffable so how could John look so unhappy? He must have been waiting for this.

"I'm sorry," John said shakily, "Please don't think that this isn't what I want. I just… it's different you know? Well of course you _don't _know, and that's the problem. Oh god I'm sorry, I just need to stop talking."

"John," Sherlock slipped his hand over John's, both of their hands shaking slightly. "It's fine. We can talk later." John shook his head, not trusting his voice not to crack.

They ordered, and ate and paid and put their jackets on. They caught a cab and rode home in silence. They unlocked the door, and walked up the stairs and took off their jackets and hung them up. Then they each took a seat on opposite sides of the couch, facing each other.

They talked about how things had been compared to how they are now. John admitted how much he hated himself for not feeling the same way about Sherlock now as he had then, but Sherlock understood. It wasn't John's fault, it wasn't _any_ of their _faults._ I was an accident. John still groaned on about how he was being an ungrateful asshole. Sherlock assured him that what he was feeling was completely and totally understandable.

They both started to loosen up. They'd only ever talked about cases, and places. No relationships, or feelings (which Sherlock _had_ been grateful for) but now with everything spilling out things were starting to come into light. The images would flash in his head at random times through out their talk.

_ The first kiss. The declaration of their mutual feelings, which had been long after the kiss that Sherlock, had at first chalked up to 'an experiment'. The first 'I love yous'. The first 'it's over!', and of course the first of many 'I'm sorry I was being stupids'. _Everything suddenly unraveling in his head. His eyes, which had been squinted in concentration, shot open. John stared wide-eyed at him, but he couldn't talk. He didn't want to risk the candle that had finally caught a spark going out.

Sebastian found that Mycroft Holmes was quite easy to trick. It had almost been too easy for him to fake his death and escape to America. It had been 7 months since then and he figured he'd be safe to travel to Scotland to find Jim, donned with a disguise of course. The blind man disguise was perfect. The sunglasses covered his eyes, making his face almost undetectable on security cameras.

He made it to the warehouse where Jim would be with no problems. Once inside he removed his sunglasses (saying as it was far too dark in the warehouse already) and his walking stick by the entrance. "Jim." He said, knowing that he was safe here mile and miles away from anyone else. "Jim!" He said a little louder as he crept through the halls. The door at the end of the hallway was open a crack, light poured through. Jim pushed it open slowly not wanting to startle Jim, and he didn't. Jim startled _him_. Jim who was in a pool of his own dried blood. Jim who was dead, and by the looks of it had been for weeks. _Jim…_

Sebastian didn't bother trying to be strong. There was no one to be strong for anyway. He was alone, utterly and miserably alone. Just like I'd left Jim, he thought only making him feel more guilty and heart broken than before. He sat next to his best friend and so much more, sobbing into his hands.

He would make him pay. Of course by 'him' he meant the consulting detective. The only one who could find Jim. The only one clever enough, the only one who would even dare. He would hurt him the only way he knew how.

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**Ok I kind of feel like Moffat with all of these character reincarnations. (I know it doesn't seem like that right now but it will all come together shortly!) **


	17. Chapter 17

**I know I suck at updating! I have had nothing but writers block these past weeks. As always thank you for reading and reviewing! I hope to end this soon, just as warning. One or two more chapters! Thank you! **

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"No I understand I just don't get the point."

"The _point _is that you go to a restaurant- or somewhere else- where you can be alone, and talk without being able to excuse yourself to an experiment."

"So this is just a trick to get me to talk about my _feelings?"_

"No that's not…" John sighed rubbing a hand through his hair before going over to Sherlock to place his hand over where his rested on the arm of his chair. "I want to get to know you, this you. We haven't had a chance to talk since you've been back from the dead." Sherlock flinched at that. "Ok bad choice of words." Sherlock's face scrunched up in distaste but he said yes to going to dinner anyway.

"You know I have to ask." John stated, after their waitress had gone after placing their meals in front of them.

"Ask what?" Said Sherlock, pushing around the food on his plate. He suddenly didn't feel all that hungry.

"Where were you? I've been trying to keep out of it… I just can't anymore. If it wasn't something serious then you wouldn't hide it from me so…"

"The truth? Because I_ could_ just make up a pretty lie and you would never know..."

"Sherlock." John interrupted, sending him a stern look.

"Yes alright." There was a dramatic pause and John felt like screaming near the end of it. "Moriarty didn't die on the roof." He continued softly. He wished he didn't have to do this in public but at least this way there would be witnesses if John tried to kill him.

"What?" Sherlock could see that he was going to get gradually angrier throughout the rest of the conversation.

"He didn't really shoot himself, it was a trick."

"And you didn't catch it?" His face transformed from anger to shock just to shoot straight back to anger. "You're telling me you went after him?"

"No I didn't catch it. I must have been in shock, however unlikely that seems. And yes I am telling you that I went after him."

"How… I'm… I need some air." He got up quickly, not looking back at the table once. Sherlock knew he wasn't coming back. He threw a 50 on the table and hustled after the other man.

"John." He yelled as he continued fast walking after him. It didn't take long to catch up to him with his longer stride. He grabbed the shoulder of his jacket making him turn, his face was an angry red and his eyes were misted over.

"Couldn't you have let Mycroft take care of him? He could have killed you. Do you even understand what that would have done to me? I'm already fucked up enough as it is if you… I wouldn't be here right now." He knew he was telling the truth and that's what scared him the most about letting John in.

"Can we… do this back at the flat?" His only reply was a grunt, which Sherlock took as an ok, and hailed a cab. They rode in silence, which was expected, but still extremely uncomfortable.

"Gladstone be quiet." The dogs insistent barking stopped instantly, and he moved away from the door to jump onto the couch wagging his tail at the men as they walked in.

"You know I wouldn't have done it if it weren't for you." It was barely a whisper, but it was all the strength he could muster. He hated that he not only let himself take a bullet for John, but the fact that he didn't mind at all. He would die a thousand times before He let John get even the slightest scratch. "I owed it to you. I owed it to myself. I needed closure. I needed justice."

The blonde mans throat closed and he feared that if he tried to talk it would come out as some strangled sounding rasp so he decided against words and instead threw himself in to taller mans arms, holding him around the waist. But after a while of just holding onto each other, both afraid if they let go that the other would disappear, he decided it was time for words. "I know what that feels like. I do, I just wished you had told me about it. We're supposed to be in this together. The consulting detective and the army doctor. That's what we do, we find people, we solve crimes. Together."

"We are, and that's why I didn't tell you. That's why I made sure to take all of the precautions I could so that you couldn't find me. I wanted us to stay together. I was just afraid of losing you. I knew I could take Moriarty. Without any memory of him it was easy not to get caught up in emotions. You... Well let's face it you would have been an emotional wreck. Blabbering on about the past, which I have none of. You would have been weak."

"It's hard to disagree with you when deep down I know you're right. I just…" He sighed nuzzling his head into Sherlock's shoulder, having to stretch up slightly to reach. "Promise you won't do something so stupid again. At least not without me."

"Now we both know I can't promise that John." He chuckled, breaking away from the embrace and walked towards the kitchen. "We didn't get to eat much, sorry about that. Just sit and I'll uh, whip something up."

John couldn't help bursting into laughter. "You cook?" He shot him an incredulous glare.

"Ok… then delivery it is."

"What's this? Oh… that won't do will it." Mycroft closed the manila folder that had been dropped in his office just minutes ago. He had been led to believe that Mr. Moran was deceased, but these candid photos, time stamps that read today and yesterdays dates, proved otherwise. He dropped his head in his hands; he rubbed at his eyes trying (and failing) to rub away the tiredness that he'd been feeling for the past few hours. He knew it would be a few more before he'd finally be able to sleep. He needed to take care of this problem as swiftly as possible; he knew that Moran had only one reason to be in London. And he would not let his baby brother die at the hands of a man that had failed to be killed by his own men.

He would have to remember to fire agent Wakefield in the morning, but for now he would track down Moran himself. He would leave nothing to chance this time. Sherlock was just getting things figured out; John was just starting to_ live_ again. He wasn't going to risk either's happiness. He would hopefully have things settled in the morning.


	18. Chapter 18

**So very sorry for how long this took. I've been busy as hell and family issues have had me a little out of it. I promise I will have another part up before I start school in 9 day (ugh). It's going to be wrapping up soon anyway.**

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Sherlock knew that the note was to be found by him, and him only. Who would have left the note in the mouth of the preserved head in the fridge if they hadn't intended for anyone other than Sherlock to find it. It wasn't a note so much as coordinates. Sherlock almost dismissed it, after all John would be cross if he followed the note and something happened which was very likely. He pocketed the paper, trying to forget about the idea of what secrets the coordinates held, but the thought didn't leave his mind for more than a second throughout the day. At least working on the case had pushed the thought towards the back of his mind, but its presence was still there, and that was enough to drive Sherlock crazy. He knew that if he didn't look into this then he would never forget it.

He approached the café carefully. Everything was seemingly normal from the outside but he scanned the area thoroughly. The gun pressing into his back was reassuring but the panic still swelled in him. The bell on the door rang as he stepped through it. Finding a seat by the window he sat down and watched people walking by. He really didn't know what he was supposed to be looking for which was new and unnerving.

Mycroft never did anything traditionally, unless the Diogenes club was involved. Other than that he really couldn't be bothered.

He entered through the back door of the café completely ignoring the questioning stares he received from the cooks and other various workers. But they didn't say anything, probably because of the two sizable men planking his sides.

He just knew Sherlock wouldn't be able to resist a clue. Usually Sherlock could smell Mycroft all over his placed clues, but this time he actually looked shocked when Mycroft emerged from the back of the tiny restaurant.

"You know I usually prefer to text." He said, already getting up from his seat.

"Sherlock sit." Sherlock rolled his eyes but did as his brother said.

"What is it Mycroft, I have much better things I could be doing with my time."

"Well if your time is so valuable than go if you must." Sherlock started to rise from his seat again. "But before you go you should know that you are in danger, brother." Sherlock, now intrigued, slid carefully back into his chair.

"Danger? Brother, I'm always in danger."

"Yes but nothing that you can't handle. This on the other hand, will not be so easy. Hell if my men can't take care of him…"

"The point, Mycroft. Get. To. It." All of this foreplay was going to give him a twitch.

"I would like you to take John and Mrs. Hudson and get out of the country. Off the continent would be preferable."

"And why would I want to do that?"

"Because if you don't I can't be sure that you won't die. That's all the information that I can give you at the moment."

"Always so secretive Mycroft. It's rather infuriating."

"I'm just trying to protect you little brother. You can't blame me for that."

"No I don't blame you, I just don't get you..."

"Seeing your little brother almost die once is enough." Sherlock didn't think his brother could ever be so open with his emotions but there they were. Written plainly across his face, the pain and terror in his eyes told Sherlock all he needed to know. So he nodded, and that was that. Sherlock gave his brother a little smile, all the thanks he could muster, and left.

"What do you mean we're going to Italy?"

"Well I've always wanted to go, haven't you?" He was already packing, throwing thing haphazardly into his suitcase.

"Yes- but I have work I can't just go to Italy just like that!"

"Why not? It's spontaneous, Romantic, all those sappy things that you go on about."

"Oh shut up. And it doesn't count as romantic if you invite your landlady to tag along." He whined. He knew this wasn't some couples trip, or even vacation. This had ulterior motive written all over. "This is about a case isn't it?"

"Ok yes, yes this is about a case!" John had unknowingly given Sherlock the perfect cover and he wasn't going to waste it.

"Then why do Mrs. Hudson and I have to come? Can't you go it alone for a few days? Or do you have to have people there to remind you to eat?" It was meant to be snarky but came out more concerned. Sherlock fixed his face into his best pout before he answered him.

"I just thought it would be nice to have you two there but if you don't want to go…"

"Oh Sherlock please you can't fool me with that crap, I think you're forgetting that I know you far more then you think I do. I probably know you more than you know your self." John chuckled to himself, but stopped at Sherlock's glare.

"I don't appreciate your idea of humor."

"Not even a little bit funny?" He nudged Sherlock's shoulder, only to have Sherlock nudge back hard.

"No." He said firmly before he continued to pack. "Please John, if I could explain to you why I am doing this I would, but I can't. Please just go with it for now ok?"

John let out a long, exaggerated sigh that only made Sherlock roll his eyes and release an annoyed huff. "Ok, I'll go along with it for now but I expect answers at some point." Sherlock looked at him gratefully, the corners of his lips lifting up every so slightly. "And you want me to get Mrs. Hudson to agree to go along with this whole thing, too. Don't you?"

"If it isn't too much trouble."

With his brother safe (well as safe as Sherlock Holmes can get) in Italy Mycroft took to finding Moran. He would take care of him personally this time; he couldn't leave any loose ends. Mycroft couldn't let them take his brother away again. They may have never been close, but they were blood. They were family and as much as Mycroft hated to admit to the chemical defect, he loved his brother.

If Sherlock found out about Moran before Mycroft could take care of him, he'd undoubtedly do something stupid that could possibly get him killed, and Mycroft couldn't let that happen again. Not when he had so much to live for.

Mycroft had nothing. Sherlock was the only family he had left. No wife no children not even real friends. Sherlock was the only person he cared for, the only person who would care if he were gone. Sherlock had John, and Greg and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson, and Mike. They would all mourn him, _had_ mourned him when they thought he was dead. Mycroft wouldn't have that. He would just be another obituary, that old depressed people would glance at to be able to say well at least I lived longer than that guy. He might be _The British Government_ but the British had no idea who he was.

Nobody _really _knew Mycroft Holmes. So hard on the outside but when it came to his baby brother he all but melted. His face might have stayed stony when he heard about the fall, but on the inside he fell apart. Sherlock was all he had, his baby brother, he was supposed to protect him.

He'd failed him once, but he would let it happen again.

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**So I just needed a little more of Mycroft being a really good big brother, because I think that he really is even if he does fuck up sometimes xD.**


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